#the four heralds au

[britcision]

Y’know it’s been kinda funny looking at people making Dungeon Meshi OCs

Because my last new fandom before this one was Dragon Age

And my Inquisitor Cadash in our Four Heralds AU is just if Chilchuck and Senshi had a kid;

Middle aged and cranky

Cooks with gusto

Created the herald union

Can will and has adopted the other three heralds and half the companions

Inveterate hater (especially of Cullen)

Ryoko Kui has my goddamn number is what I’m saying here

(Our Lavellan is even a broken little elf with teleportation issues, but his are accidental. Because he would not goddamn stop rogue-zipping around in fights and ending up in all the wrong places no matter what buttons were pushed

Mithrun had me at hello)

Also Laios and Cullen would be actual besties and neither would understand shit the other said EVER but that’s fine

[yameoto]

angel in your pocket quinn fabray.

warnings; sub!quinn, angel!reader. not hate-fucking. irritated-fucking. masturbation (in the same room as an angel), voyeurism because God Is Always Watching, motel room sex. spn!au quinn wc; 2k.

Quinn hasn’t had alone time in what feels like a fucking millenia. In the grand scheme of things, out of all that she’s sacrificed for the hunting life; her innocence, childhood, a normal, healthy relationship with literally any human being—negligible, compared to the great and terrible woe of having absolutely zero time to masturbate.

Like, seriously. Almost zilch. Hell, nowadays she’ll flop back to bed after a hunt and pass out from exhaustion. Not even enough time to sneak in an innocent tryst against her pillow.

So, of course—with the rare occasion of her baby sister and her being (forcibly) split up for a hunt, for once; and Quinn having her first free day in—well, years (also, forcibly)—when she cranks the blinds down, sinks onto the motel room mattress, bedsprings creaking underneath her—she’s prepared for the most blissful, mind-numbing, apex-of-Nirvana type of relaxation. Involving; a bolt-locked door, three fingers, and a whole lot of time.

Except, things can never go Quinn’s way. Because just when she’s sufficiently worked herself up enough to sport a damp spot, hips rocking upwards as the barest brush of her fingers catches the hem of her underwear—there’s a sudden, blinding crack of light—the familiar crackle of ozone; and such heralds her favourite (derisive) and only guardian angel standing over her bed. 

“What in the ever living fuck?” Quinn hisses, scrabbling to fling the blankets over herself. “What the hell is wrong with you?” (You’d think, around an angel, Quinn would tone down the swearing. Except being raised by a gunslinging, monster-smoking preacherman meant Quinn veers from the Lord’s name like it's red-hot iron. Cussing was free-game, though. Swear words are made-up; God isn’t.)

You scrunch your nose, wings outstretched, tips brushing the motel room’s popcorn ceiling. You sniff the air. Heady. Thick with the scent of Quinn’s arousal. 

“It reeks.” 

Quinn prays you get asbestos in your feathers. 

“Were you indecent?” In your stupid angel get-up, feathery wings and all, the inquisitive tilt of your head makes you look like an oversized bird. A quizzical owl. She’s also just being mean in her head on purpose because 1. She knows you can hear this cute little introspection, if you can be bothered listening. (No, she’s not bitter that you’ve been ignoring her prayers for weeks), 2. She also knows you’re just fucking with her, because your lips are quirking upwards, and Oh, hoot-fucking-hoot. “Shouldn’t you tell me?” Quinn scowls, yanking her top over her head as she grumbles. You’ve breezed right on to the topic of the coming rapture. Lovely.

“Lilith. Her arrival cometh in four days. You and your sister must cross state lines by then.”

“Okay.” Quinn is only half-listening. She’s far too preoccupied with the red-hot pulse still throbbing at her crotch. Her briefs cling, damp against her skin. Sticky. Underneath the blankets, she squeezes her thighs together. Shit. Shiiiit. It gives her a brief reprieve, but it’s still not enough.

“—and if you do not give the angels an answer soon, they will keep coming. Michael��”

“It’ll be a cold day in Hell before I ever say yes to that fucker. You hear me?” She growls as her fingers run over the sodden fabric of her underwear, lashes fluttering as she skims up her waistband—because the reminder that she is, apparently, destined to be a hollow shell housing an archangel to shank the devil (housing her baby sister) is not enough to kill the last lingerings of her good mood. 

“I hear the Ninth Circle is unpleasantly frigid.” Quinn snorts. “You are such a smartass.” She circles her fingers, ever-so-slightly, against the thin barrier that just barely separates the ache in her soul from sweet, sweet relief. You are still, depressingly, there, and rambling on about scriptures and duties and blah, blah blah. She’d memorised all of that shit when she was three. Burned into the back of her skull. Experimentally, she applies a bit of pressure, just to ease herself. Quinn swallows, hard. 

“You’re not listening to me.” There’s that pretty little frown. 

“No, m’totally listening.” Quinn bucks her hips upwards, and her clit bumps against the ridges of her fly. She almost moans out loud. “I’m just saying no.” Maybe if she rocks her hips it’ll get a little friction righttt—ah, yeah. There’s the spot. “You’re aroused.” 

Whatever snarky quip Quinn was about to say wilts on her tongue. She pauses her movements, of which was hooking her index down to shimmy her briefs down her thighs, to glower—cheeks puffing out to exhale a frustrated huff. “Yeah, well, you picked a pretty shitty time, if you asked me.”

You sigh. “The dawn of the apocalypse will not wait for you to finish masturbating, Quinn.” 

Then, promptly and unceremoniously, you rip the blanket off of her. She is ashamed to say, she squeals. “Wh— hey!” Cold air rushes quick enough to shiver, band of her briefs rolled just enough that her cunt is exposed, and a current runs down her spine at the way your gaze falls, honing in on it.

Instinctively, Quinn goes to wrench the covers back over, of course, but attempting to tear the scratchy thing out from your hands is like trying to move a literal mountain. It’s also, long-forgotten in the swift way  you glide forwards, smoothly sliding to your knees and clasping strong (and somehow, gentle) hands at her knees and nosing between her legs and—

“Um. What’re you doing?” The words spill out in a rush, body tense—alarm bells ringing, because in the brief time she’s known you, Quinn has discovered she doesn’t quite know as much about angels as she thought she did—or as Father had told her— but she certainly didn’t think angels were in the business of peering up at her with those innocuous, unblinking doe-eyes of yours, through those stupidly lush lashes. Nor prying her thighs apart and swiping a thumb over the sticky residue left behind with a low, rumbling hum and shit. When did she get that wet?

“You’re not focusing. You must focus. This is the most efficient solution.”

“Fucking me is the most efficient solution?” Quinn gapes, and if her voice cracks and comes out an entire register higher, that’s her business. “That’s—you’re shameless!”

“I’m shameless? An Angel of the Lord visits upon you, urges you of your role in the Holy Scriptures, and you begin pleasuring yourself.”

Okay, when you put it like that, Quinn doesn’t have much ground. 

“I was finishing,” She blusters, cheeks flaming She’s arguing for the sake of arguing—with all the petulance she can muster, because otherwise, she doesn’t know what is an appropriate reaction to an angel’s tongue flicking up your skin, nose nudging between the crook of your warm, wet folds and inner thigh. 

Her breathing grows ragged. Fuck, fuck— fuck. “It’s not my fault you come at the worst time ever—” She’s aware she sounds like a bratty teenage girl, but you also lecture her with an ego the size of a small city, and when your tongue finally meets the sopping heat of her cunt, she makes a sound the furthest thing from holy. “Can—fuck—a girl not knock?”

“The Lord doesn’t knock.” You retort plainly, flat of your tongue dragging upwards. Quinn speaks through gritted teeth, fists curling. 

“‘Behold—I stand at the door, and knock; if any man hear my voice and—oh, fuck..—open the door, I will come into him—”

You stop in your tracks, head lifting. Any disappointment at the way your tongue slips out from her folds is quelled by the sizable strip of satisfaction unfurling in her gut. Seeing you; stare incredulous, mouth still open. For once, you’re the one taken off-guard. 

“Did you just.. quote scripture at me?” A draught sweeps in the room, and your fingers twitch inside of her as if considering whether to curl them to the knuckle or jerk yourself out entirely or reach up her ribs and perhaps yank her heart out from the inside. You do none of those things, and instead settle on gaping in utter disbelief. Quinn grins. 

“Revelations; chapter three, verse twenty, baby.” Quinn’s not her Daddy’s girl for nothing. 

“..It was an euphemism.” You grumble, annoyed, and if Quinn didn’t know any better—embarrassed—though from here, she can only see the flushed tips of your ears. Tne hand gripping her thigh tightens, a pressure so negligible Quinn might think she’d imagined if—if it weren’t for the fact, that, out of fucking nowhere, your thumb presses hard against the swollen bud of her clit. 

She cries out, hips jolting up off the mattress, and you don’t let her come back down–one hand supporting her entire bodyweight, as her legs quake. She scrabbles for purchase, and finds your hair a suitable levy.

“Ah—what the—fuck—” “And you call me the smartass,” You grunt, and another finger snakes in underneath the others, with a squelch so obscene Quinn almost blushes, though she only whines with approval instead. You thrust, deeper. “If you had talked back in such a way in B.C, I would’ve ripped out your tongue.” 

Score. Quinn totally knew she got you all hot and bothered. Despite it all, she can’t stop the smirk worming its way on her lips. You can’t win against a celestial being shaped by God—but you can savour the little victories. 

You’re panting, she can feel it—each puff of your breath—coming hot along her thighs and against her ella’s and into her cunt. Quinn is all at once hit with the dizzying thought that, that same breath has blown entire civilizations to dust—and right now—right now it’s being used to dirty-talk into her pussy. 

“It wasn’t even written in B.C, you sanctimonious—oh, fuck.” Apparently, you don’t appreciate her sense of humour, because you ravage her like you’re trying to carve out a space for Michael yourself with your teeth, fingers sliding in deep and pressing out against her walls, fighting against the resistance in their tight clenches—stretching out, as your tongue swirls over her clit. For a moment, her entire brain empties, and the tension—winding, winding, winding in a band she didn’t even know existed—snaps. Her hiss is strangled, nails curling into dank bedsheets and a white-hot flash has her thighs crunching together, slamming down against your head and all as she gasps at the feeling, like iron striking stone. It’s the most surreal thing she’s ever fucking experienced. She grasps, free hand fisting the back of your head, tightly, and she’s grinding out the sopping, slick folds of her pussy against your open mouth, legs coiled around your neck like a vice. 

In the bleary remnants of thoughts she has, she figures you can’t mind too much. Angels don’t need breath, after all. (The sexy heaves of your chest when you pant, splattered with demon blood or the spine-arching way you glide up her thighs is designed, specifically, to torture her, she thinks). 

It’s the quickest orgasm she’s ever had, in all whopping twenty-six years of her life.

Your chin come away glistening, a glassy sheen coating skin and trickling, down the holy, unblemished stretch of your neck to your clavicles. 

“..Wow.” She croaks.

Her eyes, unbidden, follow the bob of your throat. You swallow. An audible ah bursts through your lips, like you’ve just downed a bubbly pitcher of beer rather than her cum. Through the renewed pounding in her head and cunt, she hears a strangled whimper. She realises it’s her own, too late. 

She needs a beer, right about now. She watches, with hazy eyes, as you simply get up off the mattress and stray to the rickety table that hosts nothing but empty cans and spare ammunition. You pull out two chairs, opposite one another.

“..Not the cuddlin’ type, then?” She rasps, weakly. Damn you and your stupid feathers for looking so unruffled when you still have her juices dribbling down your throat. She’s overcome with inscrutable urge to wrench you back by the collar and lick her salt off your skin.

“Come. We must finish our talk.”

Quinn flops, her face buried into the pillow. Her eyes are heavy, lids dropping as she groans into cushion.

“..You’re not serious.”

“I did say, efficient."

[nevertheless-moving]

I have a handful of aus that involve bridge four becoming either briefly or unshakably convinced that kaladin is actually a herald (either one who lost his memory, or secretly, as a test for the lighteyes (they're not doing well)). Actually there's probably at least one guy in canon in WOK who has this as his only half joking pet theory and a couple others who are willing to hear him out for laughs. When the Tower run second ideal happens he's just like I TOLD YOU GUYS I STORMING TOLD YOU.

Anyway Bridge Four Shenanigans such as:

swearing by different heralds names extra loudly to see if kaladin turns around at one

One guy around a corner burning glyph wards dedicated to specific heralds at timed intervals while you watch kaladin carefully to see when he twitches

Saying blatantly wrong things about heraldic legends to see if kaladin will correct you. this one actually works sometimes!!

Eventually teft (assuming its not a time travel scenario where teft is also pretty sure radiants shouldn't just know per-recreance things) or kaladin realizes what's going on and exasperatedly explains his Actual Whole Deal. The guys still keep the bit going, 95% because they've learned it really annoys Kaladin, 5% because he might still be a herald that's testing them only he has a new name (its a very multicultural group of men. What's one more name for Jezrian/Yaezir/Yaysi). And if he is a herald testing them then that's a dick move to pull on your own bridge crew so he deserves to be mocked for it.

Bridge Four being Assholes:

Very satisfying to angrily snap "Kaladin's hands!" to his face when he assigns you night watch for the second week in a row.

Or even just doing a normal herald swear and then immediately following it up with "SORRY CAPTAIN NO OFFENSE." The more panic you fake the better. He sighs so hard, it's great.

a genuinely aggrieved "CAPTAIN'S TITS" got such hard laughs after Lopen stubbed his toe that Moash almost threw up

but unfortunately. as we all know. if you do something ironically enough times. it eventually becomes an actual habit.

And now some of the other bridgecrews have picked up on it and the Captain might actually send the guys who trained them on a one way trip to the tranquiline halls. Skar tripped in front of Prince Adolin and cursed without thinking about it and now the Brightlord is asking. a LOT of questions. Couple of pissed off ardents might get involved. It's messy.

[us3rnam3-r3dact3d]

when i met you (i couldn't measure it)

Ao3 | 2.2k Words | Treasure's POV

(A Firefigher AU one shot)

Over Solaire’s shoulder, a younger man stood, his cool, grey eyes fixed on you. When your eyes met his, his face split into a smile, all straight, perfect, white teeth. You flicked your gaze over his features. High cheekbones, perfect, light hair, a maroon suit that was fitted so tightly around his tiny waist you worried his jacket button would pop if he breathed too hard.

His smile gleamed in the soft house lights, just a bit too sharp.

__

Treasure hates opening nights. William loves the ballet. Porter bums a smoke.

TW: Smoking, shitty friends.

Lil ballet info for you guys: Treasure intentionally dances androgynous parts, ones that both male and female dancers have done in the past. They're noted as playing Clara's younger brother Fritz in their youth (a part I actually got to do once as a little kid) that is often danced by young girls OR young boys. In this production, they're part of the Mouse Army and they dance Coffee, which often has both male and female dancers. While they are noted as dancing en pointe, male dancers have been known to wear pointe shoes on occasion. So really, Treasure's gender is fully up to your interpretation still.

As another note, I used more modern names for the different dances ("Coffee" instead of the "Arabian Dance," "Tea" instead of the "Chinese Dance) since I fully believe that if you can't produce Nutcracker without being weird and racist then you just aren't productive. I saw a wonderful production in which the dancers were in costumes that mimicked the drink or treat they represented instead of loosely racist caricatures. That is the vibe for Treasure's production.

Opening night was always your least favorite performance. There was some vicious, clawing energy that you couldn’t direct, an unpredictability that you didn’t care for. When a show was well run, when you had danced it four or five times in front of an audience and knew the lines of the marley floor, what parts were raised and awkward, slick and worn, you could dance without thinking. That was always your favorite part of it, when your conscious thought could drift away and your body took over. 

Dancing was never about your brain. It was about your body. 

Nutcracker was a touch different. You danced it nearly every year, so the motions of it were never new, just distant enough to be unfamiliar. You had to settle back into the feeling of them, stretching across your skin and muscles. You danced the Mice Army, you danced Coffee or Tea or Peppermint. If it was your lucky year, you’d be tapped for the Grand Pas de Deux and dance your feet raw for six performances before the company went on break for the season. 

It was not your lucky year. A combination of guest dancers and principal promotions left you, the ugly duckling of Dahlia Ballet’s professional company, taking a backseat to the pretty young things that got paraded around in snowflakes. 

You hated opening nights, especially when said opening night heralded a visit from the Ballet’s biggest benefactor. Benefactor sounded very 19th century, but there really wasn’t another word for what William Solaire was to the place. He put more money into the Ballet in charitable donations than the rest of the donors combined, and he had standing season tickets. 

He only came once a year, though, on the opening night of Nutcracker, and took up the empty orchestra box that waited, empty for his return.  

Solaire was set to visit the stage before the performance, and your CEO and artistic director were busy entertaining his weird, rich guy bullshit. You could feel the nervous energy of everybody in the building as you ran through the motions of Coffee one more time before you were called for costumes. 

“He brought someone!” Bridget wacked you with her extended tondeuse, the box of her pointe shoe digging painfully into your hip. You turned sharply, falling out of your formation, and fixed her a pointed look. “Oh shut up, look! He’s hot!” You rolled your eyes and turned, distinctly aware of how little time you had to nail this before you had to move on. Coffee could be a challenging dance; languid and slow, mimicking the twisting steam over a fresh cup. Slow didn’t mean easy. It meant that every inch of your body had to be in your control. It meant that you didn’t get the forgiveness of speed when you fucked up. Fucking up wasn’t an option. 

You flexed and pointed your feet, rose up to releve en pointe, turned in an agonizing circle with your leg in a front attitude. Your shoe caught on an uneven section of the stage. You fell to your heel, raised your head to get your bearings to remember the spot. 

Somebody was watching you. You were a performer. Your body knew when there were eyes on you. You spun your head around until you saw him. 

William Solaire was talking excitedly to the artistic director, motioning to the set dressings with a light in his face. He looked trim and handsome in his tailored tux, and his eyes were fixed with rapt attention on his enthusiastic, if anxious, conversation partners. 

You looked to his right and found the source of your discomfort. Over Solaire’s shoulder, a younger man stood, his cool, grey eyes fixed on you. When your eyes met his, his face split into a smile, all straight, perfect, white teeth. You flicked your gaze over his features. High cheekbones, perfect, light hair, a maroon suit that was fitted so tightly around his tiny waist you worried his jacket button would pop if he breathed too hard. 

His smile gleamed in the soft house lights, just a bit too sharp. 

“Oh my God,” Bridget wacked you with her foot again, “he’s totally looking at me!” 

You turned back to stare at her, your face screwed up in distaste. 

“Jesus Christ.” You snapped. “Are you blind? Are you incapable of turning without kicking me? Should I just move a foot downstage so save myself the bruise?” 

“You don’t have to be an asshole.” Bridget pouted, crossing her arms. She tugged at the hem of her leotard, only serving to prop her bust up even more prominently. She waggled her fingers towards Solaire’s shadow with a grin before turning back to you. “You are such a buzzkill.” 

You huffed, frustrated, and ran a hand over your face before remembering that you already had your stage make-up on. You’d smeared your blush. 

“Fuck me.” You sighed. 

Opening night was always your least favorite performance. Bridget was a bitch, but she was an impeccable dancer. You fell out of a pirouette after four rotations that she took to five. She did lick you twice during Coffee, and she forgot during the battle scene that the toy soldiers and mice were only meant to play fight. You were certain the wack she gave to your ribs with her wooden sword would bruise. 

You hated opening night, but you loved Nutcracker. You always had, since you played Fritz at seven. You sat in the wings and watched the Grand Pas de Deux, counted the Sugar Plum Fairy’s rotations as Cavelier spun her like a top. 

Those fuckers. They were good. Better than you. So was Bridget. So was every other principal dancer in the company. You were falling behind. Plateauing. 

During bows, your eyes drifted to that perpetually empty box to stage right. William Solaire was on his feet, his face lit up in childlike joy, clapping incessantly as the principals took another bow. To his right, just over his shoulder, his mysterious shadow stood as well, clapping slowly, languidly. His eyes were locked on you until the curtain fell. 

Your castmates broke into laughter and applause, cheers and congratulations spread through the softly lit stage. You turned, popped en pointe to stretch out your right hip. Someone caught your elbow and spun you around.  

“You’ve got to get it together on that turn.”  Bridget bitched, her arms crossed over her chest. “You’re embarrassing me.” 

You blinked back at her, shock smacked across your face. The world of ballet could be a cruel, unforgiving one. People often spoke directly and without care for emotions, only results. It shouldn’t have surprised you when she decided to make her point in this particular fashion rather than talk to your director or find a nicer way to get it across. You could appreciate her being up front, at the very least. 

“New marley.” You said, tapping your toe against the stage. “New shoes. New show. I haven’t danced Coffee in like… three years. I’ll be fine tomorrow.” 

Bridget narrowed her eyes at you, her delicate features contorting unflatteringly around a frown. 

“I don’t make excuses.” She bit out. “And I don’t fuck up. So…” 

Another dancer caught her shoulder and she turned, falling naturally into the cheer and jubilation of the post-show. She only spared you one more look before disappearing into the crowd of retiring dancers. 

You made your way to the dressing room, only lingering long enough to snag your coat and lighter before retreating again. It was fucking cold outside and it was probably in your best interest to at least change out of your shoes before you went out for a smoke, but you thought that if you spent another second around everybody’s chatter and laughter and fucking noise you’d actually go insane. 

The costume for Coffee didn’t provide the most cover from the elements. It included a pair of sheer, flowy pains and a skimpy vest that barely covered your chest. You shivered as you planted your back against the back wall of the theater and tugged a cigarette from your pack. Fuck, you were running low. You’d have to stop on the way home. Of course. 

“Can I bum one?” A smooth, british voice called from your right. You jumped, alarmed, and turned.

It was Solaire’s shadow, the handsome, blonde man that had spent the entire night intensely staring you down. You were usually off put by guys that stared, but something about him didn’t set off the alarm bells in your head. 

“Its my last one.” You grumbled, pulled your pack back out. Your hands were fucking freezing, and you shook as you attempted to flick your lights. Thin, cool hands spread over yours, plucked the lighter and both cigarettes from between your fingers. 

“Cheers. You were wonderful, by the way.” The man smiled as he brought both cigarettes to his lips, lit them with the same flame, and took the first, bitter drag before passing one back to you. You pressed it between your lips, wet with his saliva, and breathed in deeply. It warmed you up inside almost immediately. 

“I was alright.” You sighed, smoke obscuring the stranger’s face. You introduced yourself, hand extended. He took it in his, but instead of shaking it, he brought your knuckles to his lips and pressed a kiss to them. It would have been corny if it was anybody else, but something about him was so earnest that you blushed, hot and high in your cheeks, up your neck, the tips of your ears. 

“Porter Solaire.” He supplied, stepping back and resting against the cold brick wall. He had a long, black peacoat over his shoulders, leaving his arms free from its heavy sleeves. Even though he had very little cover from the cold, he didn’t shiver or shake, seemingly unbothered by the winter chill. “And I mean it. I don’t give compliments lightly. I couldn’t take my eyes off of you.” 

“I was the weakest dancer up there tonight.” You huffed, tapping the filter of your cigarette against your lips in thought. “I’m not conventional. I don’t have the training that the other principal dancers do.” 

Porter snickered, looking down at you out of the corner of his eye. 

“Something funny?” You sneered. Embarrassment crept up your chest and into your throat, turning you mean. You hated that about yourself. 

“No.” Porter said softly. “No, it’s just… I don’t give a damn about ballet. It’s the old man’s favorite, I just got dragged along tonight. But every time you were on stage, I was enraptured. I have no idea if you’re a good dancer, but what I do know is that you’re… something.” 

The way he said something sounded dangerous. You wanted to watch his mouth form around the word a few more times. 

The back door creaked open. Bridget stuck her head out into the cold. 

“We’re going to get drinks.” She snapped. “Like… six of us? How big is your car? You can DD, right?” 

“I was about to leave.” You said, gesturing with your half-finished cigarette. 

“Oh, come on.” Bridget said. “It’s enough of a mood killer that you refuse to have a drink, the least you can do is come with. It’s opening night! Come and celebrate with us!” 

“It doesn’t sound much like they’ll be celebrating.” Porter’s voice rose up from behind you. You half turned to look at him. Smoke twirled around him lazily, languidly, twisting tondeuse and attitude turns around his sharp, pretty features. “More like… babysitting.” 

“Oh!” Bridget straightened when she saw him, puffing up her chest in her skimpy Coffee top. Porter’s eyes trailed over her body, but the light that sparked in his grey irises when he looked at you was absent. His eyes took on a sharp, cutting energy that made you shiver. “Hey, you’re with… with Mr. Solaire, right? Do you want to… come along?” She put on her most devastating smile, looking up at him through her lashes. Porter looked down at her, blinked slowly twice before turning his eyes back to you. 

“Do you have dinner plans?” He asked, his face and eyes lighting up. “There’s a lovely little Indonesian place around the corner.”

You looked over to Bridget, who was starting up at Porter like he’d spit at her. Her pretty face was twisted up in disbelief. 

“That sounds great.” You said decisively. “Let me go change and get this shit off of my face.” Porter gave you a sly, curling smile. 

“I’m not complaining about the costume.” His eyes slid to Bridget for a moment, as if to check that she was still watching. The corner of his smile quirked up as his attention fell back to you. One cold hand spread up your exposed ribs as the other snaked under your chin and tilted your face towards his. His thumb traced your jaw, those sharp eyes meeting yours for just a moment before he ducked down. 

His hands were cold, but his lips were warm. Soft and plush, you melted into the feeling of them. Warmth bloomed in your chest. You leaned into him, hand falling to hold onto the lapel of his stupid, fancy suit. Smoke passed between your mouths, acrid, bitter, so fucking warm. 

Bridget was gone by the time you came up for air. 

“Your friends suck.” Porter smiled into your mouth. He didn’t let you go. His cold hands began to warm on your skin. 

“Not my friends.” You snorted. “Coworkers at best. Take me to get Indonesian.” 

“As you wish.” Porter grinned.

[deadwooddross]

Was chatting with pals and ended up writing some summaries of my settings...I used to talk about them more, but I tend to change things a lot and got a little shy bc i'm never quite sure what will stay Consistent BUT, their main conceits have all pretty much stayed the same, so, here's some summaries

Otiose: Quiet apocalypse heralded by the four horsemen (huge worms who swim through the air). there wasn't a war or anything, but something bricked the entire satellite and gps system, and everything just kind of fell apart in the modern (future sci-fi, 'designer baby' era) world with it

Ergosphere: FAR sci-fi, humans haven't found ANY sophonts until the Idul find them, uncannily familiar fungus homunculi. The Idul are very divided and one of the cultures core drives is sacrificing materials and people to a particular hungry god. it goes. a little bit bad and a little bit fine.

The Sprawl: There's a tear between the human world and the fae world and great roots are spreading everywhere like kudzu. The elves are Unpleasant motherfuckers. Figuring out how to adapt or dying trying to burn back the incursion ensues

Oddside: Sort of a strange limbo world, I haven't decided if its multiple planets or not, but at least one takes place on a brown dwarf. Humanity is built on a living corpse (not entirely literal but not entirely Not either) and billionaires have plugged themselves into a line of ambrosia not meant for them. Unclear mix of new weird and sci-fi, but mostly follows a baby immortal and someone who kinda wants to die. its got oyster mummies. the sun might be broken, or maybe just old

Archives: Earth got hit by a rock again, humanity moved everyone it could to a partially developed two planet system. One is colonists and one is so shitty but habitable it becomes a prison planet. You can imagine how this goes

Revenants: Death is broken and most people come back in one way or another. sort of low fantasy/early industrial era on a massive continent during an ice age. more of a sandbox, but one with lots of Fighting about how to handle the un/dead most of my characters have a "Home" setting between all of these, but they can appear in any of them because I loooove AUs

[the-artist-grimm]

Okay, so I have a few questions that don’t line up with each other, but here goes!

What was Anthea’s first reaction to Chemach, Kudaai, and Clauneck?

What were Aym and Baal’s first reaction to rain, snow, or thunder/lightning?

Are there potentially other lambs in your au that don’t live in the Lands of the Old Faith?

Do you have ideas for a Narilamb baby?

What was Anthea’s first reaction to Chemach, Kudaai, and Clauneck? 

Clauneck - Met him during their first proper crusade but had heard about him from Ratau previously. Anthea thinks he’s a mysterious, but intelligent person. They also are very fond of his decorations and after several visits both find that they both share a mutual love of stars. The decorations hanging in the lamb’s room were actually purchased from him, and he often lets Anthea know whenever his cards herald any sort of upcoming starfall so they can watch.  Kudaai - Met him prior to becoming a vessel when they were around 16 or so. Shrumy had been teaching Anthea how to fight at Ratau’s request, and they figured it was time to get the lamb properly fitted for their own weapon. Anthea has a lot of respect towards him and thinks his weapons work is amazing, since their hometown never had a blacksmith. That first meeting saw the lamb’s polite but curious nature able to charm a usually gruff Kudaai. The lamb tends to chat with him about whatever he’s working on on visits now, since they ask more in-depth questions like the pros and cons to different blade styles, metals, ect compared to just asking a vague ‘what are you working on?’  Chemach - Met her during one of their earlier crusades, and is the only one of the three siblings Anthea’s somewhat unsettled by. Chemach’s more erratic behavior leaves the lamb typically on edge, though they try to still be polite. While Anthea is happy to chat with Kudaai or Clauneck whenever they come across them, with Chemach Anthea tends to try to get in and out, that first visit Chemach actually ended up startling Anthea quite a bit upon dropping down from the ceiling.   

What were Aym and Baal’s first reaction to rain, snow, or thunder/lightning? 

❄️ Snow: The twins LOVED seeing it through the crown, and even more-so in person. Think puppies playing in snow for the first time, the twins had woken up prior to Anthea and Narinder and had rushed out in just their nightgowns cause they were so excited. Nari and Anthea woke up shortly after to the sound of shrieking outside and ran out weapons drawn in a panic, only to find the boys chasing each other while trying to shove snow down the others’ collar.  They should’ve urged them inside to change, but it’d been the first time they’d seen the kits spar against one another since their deaths, as post resurrection neither could handle holding a weapon much less their old play fights hand to hand without panicking.   🌧️ Rain: The twins were wary at first since water, but after a while found that the sound rain made was soothing.  ⚡ Thunder/Lightning: Terrified. A pretty bad storm hit only a week after their resurrection while it was Narinder’s night with them, and he had to send Leshy (the only revived bishop at the time. Leshy had been staying at Nari’s house since they’d reconciled mostly), to go fetch the lamb since both twins were too petrified to go out. Anthea arrived to find Narinder trying to calm Aym down from a panic attack and while Baal had gone mute with his claws digging into Nari’s arm to the point of drawing blood from holding it so tight.  It was that combined with already nightly treks over to the others’ place after one of the twins’ woke up from nightmares that led to Narinder and Anthea to just agreeing to alternate the house all four slept at rather than hoping the twins could manage a night with only one of them.

Are there potentially other lambs in your au that don’t live in the Lands of the Old Faith? 

Possibly, though lands beyond that of the Old Faith are largely unexplored/lack any contact. There’s other nations and lands, but they all got their own things going on (I imagine eventually they do make contact, since the Old Faith eventually could be considered just a sort of kingdom after a few centuries). 

Do you have ideas for a Narilamb baby?

No ideas for drawings yet but Anthea and Narinder do likely have more kids eventually, though it’s not for a long while. Anthea’s mainly hesitant about more children since they fear making Aym and Baal feel as neglected/as pressured to be good examples as they’d felt when their parents had more kids, and Narinder kinda wants to wait till they’re both in the right headspace for it. Like they love children don't get them wrong, but they don't want to jump into things when they got a still young cult, their own remaining issues, and two tweens to watch over. Plus Aym and Baal are like 11 when they’re resurrected and not only still have plenty of years of childhood left, but also have a lot of trauma to work through so they want to make sure they can devote themselves fully to their boys. They do both get their baby fix as cultists start feeling safe enough to start their own families though-there’s a nursery that acts as a daycare while families take their kids back in evenings, so when not busy Anthea or Narinder try to stop by to read with the kids there.

[maspers]

I feel like those of us in the Cosmere fandom don't appreciate how the Stormlight Archive isn't a murder mystery.

(Well okay there's a little bit of one in Oathbringer but we aren't talking about that)

It could have been so easy for the death of Gavilar Kholin to have been a murder mystery. Let's look at the scenario, shall we? There's a big meeting and party, where peace is supposed to be declared, and then the King dies. Say we DIDN'T know whodunnit. Gavilar's death haunts the narrative, and every subplot in the story soon ties back to that single driving question of "Who Killed Gavilar Kholin?". Over the course of the story, we've seen the layers slowly peeled off, one by one, revealing a whole bunch of suspects.

There's Dalinar, the King's brother, seemingly a depressed drunkard but was once known a deadly warrior and general.

There's Sadeas, the highprince who is seemingly loyal to the king but is otherwise a backstabbing slimeball.

And there's another highprince, Amaram, who was talking with Gavilar for quite a while earlier in the day.

Jasnah, the King's heretical and highly intelligent daughter, and...

Also the person who hired Liss, an actual assassin, to spy on the event and possibly kill someone else.

Then there's Elhokar, the King's incompetent son who is nonetheless next in line for the throne.

And Elhokar's hedonistic wife, Aesudan, who was apparently enough of a problem that Jasnah was planning on killing her.

Speaking of wives, the King's own wife Navani is soon revealed to be cunning in her own right... and angry with her husband.

Dalinar's sons, Adolin and Renarin, don't seem to have been in attendance, but considering everyone else in the family was there there's no reason they couldn't've been around as well and nobody mentioned it.

There's Eshonai and the other Parshendi drummers, a.k.a. the opposing faction. Eshonai in particular seems to be dangerous.

And her sister, Venli, is also dangerous, was also present, and probably wasn't supposed to be.

At least four of the legendary Heralds are soon revealed to be present as well. The King was planning on betraying Kalak and Nale, Jezrien was drinking with Dalinar, and Shalash was defacing the artwork.

Taravangian, the seemingly weak and compassionate King of Kharbranth who secretly is planning on orchestrating a LOT of murdering.

There's the mysterious "Thaidakar", leader of the Ghostbloods who Gavilar himself thought was the one responsible for killing him.

Since it's a Cosmere work and we didn't yet know Hoid couldn't hurt people, it would be easy to assume he's an available suspect as well.

Gavilar could have even committed suicide, as some part of an elaborate scheme.

A huge assortment of servants and partygoers, all of which could have been the killer. Not to mention the spren (and a seon!), who are soon revealed to not necessarily be as mindless as they seem.

Literally anyone else in the story becomes fair game at first glance. Even though she definitely wasn't there at all, Shallan Davar is revealed to have history with that particular night as well. You can keep going and connect everyone to the murder somehow, at least at first.

And lastly Szeth-son-son-Vallano, a mysterious Shin man in white, seen roaming the halls with a very bizarre sword.

Of course, we all know what happened. It was Szeth, in the King's chambers, with the honorblade. And he did it on the orders of the Parshendi. There's no whodunnit, or even a howdunnit (and even the whydunnit is only partially hidden from the reader, Jasnah's POV reveals Eshonai and the other Parshendi were pretty upfront about why they did it). There's no ambiguity, the death is merely a spark that kicks off the plot into motion.

"The Mysterious Murder of Gavilar Kholin" would have been a crutch. It would have been so easy for Sanderson to use it as a backup sideplot, supporting the other stories and keeping things tied together. There's an AU out there where Kaladin ends up being the amateur detective who puts the last piece together and confronts Szeth in an epic battle in the sky. That could have happened. But it didn't.

Brandon Sanderson does not need to rely on a murder mystery to keep his story standing. Regardless of whether it was intentional or not, he had enough faith in his narratives to make them stand on their own, moving forward beyond the death of one pathetic man. The Stormlight Archive is not about how people die, it's about how people choose to live. So it cast aside its crutch, walked forward on its own legs, and became one of the best dang fantasy sagas in history.

And then, in the ultimate "psych!" moment, things went back around and kept connecting to that night anyway. Like a bizarre episode of Columbo, where everything else around the extremely upfront murder gets revealed instead. Instead of using the murder mystery as a device to support the plot, the entire rest of the story is used as a device to support the account of the murder. So that even though it WASN'T a murder mystery we're thrown by the plot twists anyway.

And then, of course, while we're still reeling from those reveals, the rest of the plot hits us with some more Sanderlanches, because this story is still going. And it was never really about Gavilar, anyway.

It's brilliant. How the heck does Sanderson pull these crazy writing shenanigans off?

[aesthetic-uni]

Okay Arcane Season 2 Final reaction -Episode 7

I am freaking the FUCK out

In case anyone is wondering, Jinx is my favorite, I want happiness for her, don’t get me wrong I love all the others but if she’s not happy by the end of this you won’t ever see me again

Opening vinyl-I literally stopped breathing ID THAT EKKO AND JINX AGSJRBLDJ?!?!

My king Ekko, where have you been all this time. Please come home we miss you

EKKO?! And is that little drawing Jinx??

OH ALTERNATE UNIVERSE TIME BABEY so many fanfics are going to go off this I can tell

EKKO!! He looks so handsome and alive!!! (My hopes for these characters ARE VERY LOW AS YOU CAN TELL)

Jinx looks so cute!!!

BENZO!! Oh my fucking god is this going to be a Happy Universe that NONE OF THEM ARE GOING TO GET?! I’m going to throw myself off a cliff.

Oh my god no one ever address Ekko’s trauma with Benzo I’m so glad they’re doing it THAT WAS HIS DAD!!

This is cruel. This is just cruel how DARE they give us a happy au

No Netflix I will not skip the intro fuck off

AAAAW EKKO NOO SEEING EVERYTHING THAT COULD HAVE BEEN

God Jinx looks SO CUTE I need so much fanart of her

Ps I know this is technically Powder, I’m too lazy to constantly switch names so Jinx

Also does she have a pink streak in her hair? I don’t like the implications of that

Aaaaaw they’re partners :((((

MYLO AND CLAGGOR HOW FUCKING DARE YOU HOW DARE YOU HOW DARE YOU OH FUCK OH GOD

Wait omg “Trouble in paradise” TIMEBOMB?!

I have gotten through THREE MINUTES OF THIS SHOW

Oh that cute Jinxer is here woo! Lmao Mylo is so real.

Aaaw Claggor he’s trying to help the city and he cares about his little sister AND HOW FUCKING DARE YOU ARCANE

AAAW JINX TRYING TO HELP MYLO FUCKING HELL ARCANE

“WHAT WOULD THEY DO WITHOUT YOU” JESUS CHRIST ARCANE

Okay this isn’t funny anymore where’s Vi

Okay but is it OUR professor?! (I can’t spell his name)

IT IS!!

Okay but WHY what’s happening with Jayce?!

VI VI VI VI VI

OH NO JAYCE WHY CANT HE BE HAPPY TOO?!

Ooooh his HAMMER is why he got sent to the apocalypse au huh

Is that evil Viktor. Is that the Machine Herald? IS IT TIME FOR GLORIOUS EVOLUTION?!

Wow I was just joking with the apocalypse au but it really was it huh?

Aw I like that Jinx kept her workshop

Is that a heart. Around a picture of them. IS TIMEBOMB ACTUALLY CANON IN THIS UNIVERSE?!

Wait, is this THEIR WORKSHOP?!

FUCK I KNEW VI WAS GOING TO BE DEAD GOD DAMN IT

Oh this isn’t happy at all :(

OH FUCK THIS ISNT HAPPY AT ALL

WHY THE FUCK WOULD YOU SHOW ME THAT HOLY HELL?! OH MY GOD THERE WAS NO REASON FOR SHOWING ME THAT

Way to hammer it in Arcane for no fucking reason other than MAKING ME CRY YOU PIECE OF SHIT. LIKE I GOT IT. VI IS DEAD IN THAT UNIVERSE. DIDNT NEED TO SHOW ME HER SIBLINGS REACTING TO HER DEATH

GLORIOUS EVOLUTION HORROR

Oh god not doomed Timebomb IN THE FUCKING HAPPY AU

Poor Jayce just has to fucking go through it huh

Wow that is an understatement.

Okay but MelJayVik crumbs ILL TAKE IT

YEAH THE PERSEVERE JAYCE!!!!

NO STOP MAKING ME CRY WITH THE HAPPY AU

There’s not much I can say with Jayce other than holy fuck this poor man

God they could have been partners. They could have been the brightest minds in all of Zaun. They could have been HAPPY. I fucking hate this show why would you show me this. I’m never going to recover

HE BROKE TIME BABY!!! FOUR SECONDS BACKWARDS LETS GOOOO

God they are so in love. God this is going to kill me

Oh my god the fanartists and editors are going to MURDER me with the “Do you think we together in every universe” trend aren’t they?

SILCO?! ZAUNDADS CANON?!

Ekko hold on. EKKO HOLD ON.

Oh my god this reference to season 1 episode 4 how fucking dare you

HOW DARE YOU MAKE TIMEBOMB CANON LIKE THIS?! AURRRGGGHHHH

Ripping my hair out. Clawing my eyes out. Beating my chest until it caves in. This is everything I could ever want. HOW. DARE. YOU.

I love them. I love them so much. Why would you do this to me.

IM GOING TO BE FUCKING SICK

[thesummerestsolstice]

Okay I'll talk about my "standard Gil-Galads" in another post but I also have one very niche AU Gil-Galad I've been meaning to write something about: Fin(arfin)-Galad. Because, think about it. The timeline doesn't exactly work, but Finarfin comes with the host of Aman and decides to stay in Middle-Earth afterwards. And there's so much there.

Finarfin finally following the footsteps of his family, late and last, as always.

Seeing Beleriand in ruins, the wreckage and graves of four of his children, and still decides to stay. And no one understands why.

Is it because he feels responsible for what's left of the Noldor? Does he feel shame for leaving his children alone to face the darkness? Is there nothing in Valinor for him after the devastation of Alqualonde? Does he have some of the Noldor ambition and fire in him after all?

Finarfin was once easy to read, but he isn't anymore. He takes his feelings and reasons both to his grave.

He takes a new name, and speaks so little of his past that over time, most forget who he is, and begin to assume he must be Orodreth's son, or something like that.

Sometime in the Second Age, Fingolfin is released from Mandos, and Finarfin, who has always been exactly where Fingolfin thought he was, is nowhere to be seen.

The Noldor of the First Age remember Finarfin as the prince who stayed behind, but he ends up becoming the longest-reigning and most successful Noldor King in Middle-Earth.

He builds his own realm in Lindon, he gets to see his daughter married and with a child of her own, the remnants of his brothers' lines survive in Elrond and Celebrimbor.

He makes Elrond his heir, though he knows Elrond will never take the crown. There's an understanding between them– king and herald, both doomed to live half in the visions of foresight they have.

Is he happy there? Does he know?

And in the end he dies recklessly, in fire, charging into a hand-to-hand fight with a mad god.

Just like his brothers.

(Or his son)

[ruiniel]

This storm

I. Even for you

Fandom: Jujutsu Kaisen | Rating: 🔞| Geto Suguru x fem!Reader | Count: 7.8K | Ongoing | Summary: A night after a difficult mission... | On AO3 | Tags & Warnings: my first fic for JJK, fem!reader, Second Person POV, Geto didn't defect AU, But still has it rough, Set four years after Hidden Inventory, Friends with some benefits, It’s complicated, Light angst, Feels, Needy!Geto, Dom energy!Geto, Smut, Vaginal sex, Oral sex (f receiving), Self-indulgent what else, Badly wanted more of this flavor Geto in fic so here I am

The clock startles you, eyes drawn from your reading towards the brief robotic sound. The numbers flicker red against black, heralding midnight. 

With a sigh you close the book and rise, walking to the window instead. The downpour has been ongoing for hours now, and water flows down the glass like tears. 

Cold. The city is cold and dark, a flood of souls and living blood. Neon lights flash in jittery repetition like an irregular pulse, reflected by a veiny system of wet roads: red, blue, red, blue. 

Worry binds your heart, and thoughts roil like wind. Where is he? You had a day off (a luxury rarely afforded in the world you both share) but your friend’s work is out there in the frontlines. Always gone, always alone lately. Sometimes, you land a mission together where you do your part as an auxiliary manager, but those are few and far between. 

You won't call, it’s a given. Any disruptions could lead to injury or worse, and even the thought of him being harmed brings anxiety like a weight forcing your airways shut. He’s your friend, more so the first person who helped guide you when you first reached Tokyo, so patient, laid back and generous with his time. The affinity was instant and mutual, and a couple of years later here you are, sharing a rent. You learned many things about Suguru Geto since then, some wonderful, some worrying—such as his tendency to drive himself into the ground for his vocation. But in the end, he is only human, isn't he? 

Your thoughts are cut by the familiar, metallic click and turn of a key. The door to the apartment opens, and the newcomer eases inside. 

“Suguru…” you turn, watching his tall figure for anything amiss. His movements are sluggish, his gaze unfocused. It’s been one of those missions, then. 

Suguru raises his head at your voice, the blank expression losing to a fickle smile. “Hey.” He’s drenched by the rain: his hair, his uniform, his skin. “How was your day off?” he asks, propping a hand against the wall and kicking off his shoes. 

“It was... it was fine.” 

It must’ve been a difficult exorcism, you think, as he goes and slumps into a kitchen chair. 

You sit across from him, leaning forward with your elbows resting on the table between you. He looks exhausted, his complexion sickly, as though he’s had poison and is living through the worst of it. It’s not the first time you’ve seen it, nor will it be the last. 

The rain patters against the windows, filling the silence. Suguru hangs his head, rubs at his right eye, and carelessly undoes the uniform button at his chest before shrugging the entire thing off and hanging it on the back of the chair. 

“I suppose I shouldn’t ask…” you try, watching him roll up the sleeves of his shirt. You want to know what kind of special grade he dealt with, but you can't get yourself to do it: it’s on his face, the bags under his eyes, the tension in his body. He looks like he’s about to be nauseous. No, talking about it won't help, not now.

Suguru shakes his head. Silently he reaches for a pack of cigarettes and stands. You follow him out on the small balcony, both leaning against the rail. The rain stopped for a reprieve, and the sounds of wheels turning on wet asphalt reach you from the streets below. 

Suguru lights a cigarette, staring ahead. On the first exhale of smoke it looks as though he wants to spit his lungs out. You know how it goes by now: his cursed spirit manipulation technique leaves him with an aftermath few could bear or live with for long, but still, he does it. If there's anything Suguru has, it's strong principles and an immutable conviction as far as his role in this world goes. 

His silence, in any other context, would feel comfortable. But now his jaw is tight, and he’s crossed his arms at his chest as if straining to keep all the curses he’s absorbed from breaking free. 

All you can do is reach out, fingers smoothing his dark hair away from his face; a stunted motion, but one you couldn’t resist. 

Suguru sketches no reaction to your touch at first. He takes another drag of his cigarette and looks over, holding your gaze. Your stomach flips, a meld of relief and care rushing through you and coiling around your ribs like wildflowers. You wonder at this renewed sense of hope as your touch glides down his cheek, wiping away a droplet of gore.  

“It feels as if it’s all too much these days…” you murmur, “even for you.”

Suguru smiles again, once a confident grin—now a heartbreaking display when contrasting with his state. Sometimes, in recent months, you’d see an odd light in his stare, like a spark ready to ignite a sea of flames; but it only lingers for a moment before it dies, and he’s back to the one you know. 

“It is. But… you’re here.” His eyes close as he leans into your palm, nuzzling against it, the brush of his skin like warm silk.

You swallow. Sometimes he makes these small gestures that hide a greater meaning, it’s who he is. You like to think you’re used to it by now. “Suguru, are you all righ—”

“Help me.” His words are a warm, rushed whisper against your hand. You know what it means, you know it helps him on a physical level to recuperate. You’re friends, both very aware of the other in many ways: qualities, needs, and sometimes, sometimes… you oblige each other.

And you did miss him, the anticipation pooling to your core an irrefutable proof. 

Suguru draws back, catlike eyes opening. His lips part as he puts out the unfinished cigarette, a tremble to his fingers. “I need a shower.” 

You can’t but smile and chew on your lip as he passes you, his hand grazing the small of your back. “Wait for me?”

“Where would I go?” you tease, your voice only a little choked. 

Selfish? Yes, you most certainly are. Suguru is kind, and possibly the most courteous person you’ve met among your peers, and he’d do anything for the people he cares about. When you first spoke of what developed from your friendship, you agreed to keep things open, not least because your occupations didn’t allow for much more.

Distance means safety. Distance means less pressure. But, there’s a flip side to everything and deep inside you wonder—would anyone else, apart from Satoru maybe, be able to remain by his side for as long as you both have?

The answer doesn't matter, does it? 

You stare ahead at the city, not slowing for a moment despite the hour. Wetness splashes your face, and faraway thunder signals a renewed pour. Rain falls, slower this time, reluctant little drops that induce a near catatonic state of mind, and you barely feel arms wrapping around your middle from behind.

“Hi again,” you murmur as Suguru buries his face against your neck; the softness of lips on your skin follows. 

“Hi,” he says, hugging you tighter and pressing a kiss to your jaw. His hands feel heavy on your body, one sliding down your thigh while the other reaches up to your ribs, ghosting the side of a breast.

You have to admit, whatever lies you tell yourself, your body will always deny it through the swift, unruly reactions to his closeness. You missed him, and now… now you want him in ways that make your head spin. Base. Primal. 

The hand on your thigh drifts inward and up, up, up. His chest heaves against your back, and his grip on you is tighter when he reaches the warmth between your legs. “May I?” he asks into your skin. 

You nod. You feel his smile against your neck as his hand grips you, massaging the hot center through your nightgown.  

You huff a short breath; he sighs. “You’re so… warm…” he squeezes gently, his long hand arched and slowly moving back and forth between your legs. You grasp his other arm, your knees already useless. 

The rain is cold, his mouth is warm. His hair is loose and still wet from the shower, dripping down your collarbone as he tilts your chin to the side, and presses his lips to yours. 

Suguru tastes good. He’s always tasted better than anyone you recall, deepening the kiss faster than you can react, the hand between your legs drawing your hips against his. 

“… you're so…” his fingers never stopped teasing your slit through your clothes, and he’s hardening against your ass as he speaks, “...delicious,” he says, sucking harshly on your lower lip before melding his mouth to yours. 

You can barely get an intake of breath, and as good as this feels, you're both getting pelted by the rain now.

Not that he cares: one hand holding you by the jaw and the other weakening you, he feels overwhelming, so much so that it hurts a little as you break the kiss. “Suguru, the rain…”

“Yes, you’re right,” he mumbles, still nipping and licking at your lips, “Of course, of course, you’re right…” and with that he all but drags you after him as you are, never releasing you. 

You reach the one room with a double bed—usually yours to sleep in—where he throws you down, following and dragging you under him, pausing for a moment to stare at you. He’s wearing nothing but loose dark pants, and your eyes are drawn to the ragged cross of scars lining his chest. Unable to resist, you trace one with your finger, then rise and kiss along it as he holds the back of your head. 

“You… I’m so… glad you’re here, I’m…” he doesn't continue, instead pushing you down by the shoulders and hastily sliding your nightgown up your thighs with both hands. There’s an urgency to each movement, to each kiss down your sensitive inner thigh, his head dipping lower and lower, his breath hot and eyes half-lidded as he looks up at you briefly while gently pulling aside your panties. 

Your lower body shivers with need, the sight alone throwing you in a daze—he’s good at this, you know he is, and he—

All following thoughts disperse and your mind empties when he runs his tongue along your slit in a slow, hot, languid stripe. 

“Oh god…” he says against your cunt, his hands on your inner thighs keeping them spread as he licks you again.

You clutch at the sheet, your fingers finding purchase in his hair when he sucks on your clit with the softest insistence. His eyes are closed, a furrow to his brow that you’d mistake for concentration if it weren't for the needy sounds slipping from his lips as he takes you slowly, again and again, like he’d been thirsty for this all his days. 

You're at a breaking point, thighs trembling beneath the pressure of his soothing hands, your mouth watering in pleasure at the sight and sensation of his pink tongue circling your clit, and all you can articulate is his name.

“Mm?” He doesn't even look up, still eating you out with maddening compulsion, sucking on your pussy lips before licking between them, up your clit and down to your hole, slipping his hardened tongue inside and urging your hips to move against his mouth. 

“I-I’m going to…” A stutter of muscles, then another, and he won't stop but keeps eating you out like he's in his own dream, urging you on with his eyes closed. 

“Please, come on… for me, will you…? You taste so good, so-so-good, did I ever tell you that? If not I’m… an idiot-your scent-your—...”

You can't hear the rest over the waves of a sudden high, nerves suffused with pleasure and the deepest relief you’ve ever felt. He breathes against your quivering cunt as your fingers lazily card through his hair. When he looks up at you again, his eyes are feverish, his lips aglow with your shine. He crawls up to you like a stalking feline pulling down his pants and reaching for a bedside drawer at the same time. “Where… did you have those…”

“It’s fine,” you urge him back down. “On the pill for a while now.”

He watches you for a moment, then leans in for a slow, open-mouthed kiss. His erection is pressed against your pussy, his forearms on either side of your head, his hands caressing your temples. 

He’s heavy against you but it’s that pleasant heaviness that goes with a craving to be consumed and just as you think this Suguru severs the kiss, rising to his knees. “Off. Take it off,” he says, his voice low and breathy as he slides his pants down his hips.

You don't even get to comply before he’s yanking your garments off himself, unveiling your body with jerked, impatient movements. “Much better…” he says, and for a moment you see it—that light in his eyes, the spark that both scares and thrills. But you’re easily distracted by the sight and sound of him pumping his cock as he stares at you so hungrily, as he drags you by the hip towards him and grabs you by one ankle, resting your leg over his shoulder. 

It strikes you how attractive the sight of him is, and you make sure to capture the memory: the slight crease between his eyebrows and the deepened flush across his cheekbones, his disheveled inky hair, the parted lips as he rubs the wet tip of his thick erection against your slit. The way the muscles in his abdomen tense and soft, barely audible moans leave him with each stroke. “Ready?” he asks but doesn't wait for an answer and you grit your teeth, watching the head of his cock disappear inside your body. “Good girl… just a little more, you can take me…”

“Suguru wait, it’s—” you cry out at the sudden thrust, your back arching off the bed.

He clamps a hand over your mouth, pressing down with his weight as you cry out against his palm. “… all in, it’s fine. I told you, like last time…”  

But last time it wasn't quite like this. Last time was a slow, tender affair full of exploration. This feels like an impending storm and he feels different too, but, at the same time, you find that you enjoy it. You wonder if it shows on your face despite your words.

He sank inside you to the hilt but now doesn't move, locking eyes with you. He’s biting down on his lip and his cock twitches inside your cunt, once, twice, a delicious feeling that makes you involuntarily tilt your hips upward. He’s aware enough to see it in your eyes, in the way your tongue peeks out to lick at the inside of his palm. 

Suguru smiles—there it is, that fox-like grin, a little tired but reminiscent of better, brighter days. Affection melts into the urgent need for him as he removes his hand from your mouth and slinks out of you slowly, torturously slow, until the thick head barely grazes your soaked pussy. 

Your vision sways when the sudden thrust slams right back into you. “God...”

“I know…” he gasps, his fingers digging into your hip bone, his other hand grasping the leg still propped against his shoulder. 

Another thrust leaves you dizzy, the angling of his hips changing as he leans forward, pressing more of his body weight onto you, and then—

He knows rhythm, he’s always had an innate understanding and empathy toward others, down to every level of their being. And now that sense of his must be at work because his pace is a lascivious crescendo, the long drags of his cock inside you harder and faster and just how you like them, his chest rising and falling shaken by his labored breathing. His eyes catch your stare, clouded with pleasure from the incessant, decadent ebb and flow. 

He fucks into you faster, until his skin is sleek with sheen and you're moaning helplessly from this sweet, merciless intrusion. In truth, you never have time, never enough energy to invest in someone else. It just comes with the territory, with the way of life most people would never understand. “Suguru,” you coo, and at the silent question in his eyes you add: “Harder…”

A huff of laughter escapes him and he wastes no time pulling out—you feel the loss immediately, a whimper your protest, but it’s short-lived as he turns you over. “On your knees.” 

You comply, rising to all fours in a breath. A slap to your ass nearly has you tumbling forward on the bed but the firm grasp on your hips won't allow it. He pulls you right back onto his cock, moaning softly as you involuntarily clench and squeeze, telling you how tight you are, how fine and slick you feel, all the while placing warm, shallow kisses along your spine. 

And then the world tilts sideways. You can hear nothing but the slap of his hips, feel nothing but the building rush inside as he pumps into you with vicious strength, pushing into you at a pace that has you quivering and crying out.

“Harder? Is that what you said?...” he asks, but there’s no trace of teasing or humor in his tone as he fucks you deeper, and the more you struggle the more bruising his hold on you becomes. 

You barely avoid biting on your tongue as your body shakes from his pitiless moves until you can’t take it anymore: your arms give way, and you fall over. 

“S-Suguru...” 

He keeps going, ramming you into the bed, sucking on your ear as you lie there and take it and take it and take it. For how long? 

“SUGURU—”

All you feel is the cleaving pleasure of an exquisite orgasm, a coil unwinding where your bodies are joined to spread like heavenly vines through your body. 

He flips you over at the same time, entering you and going completely still; his arms wind around you in a hot embrace. “I love… I love it when you do that…” he whispers against your neck, enjoying the uncontrollable spasming of your cunt around him. 

As you come down he picks up the pace again; your legs cross around his torso, your heels touching the small of his back. 

“That’s right…” you sigh as he groans into your neck, “Use me… use me…” 

“What?... Say that again... please.” His voice is pleading now, in direct opposition to the ruthless treatment from moments before. 

“I want you… to use me, Suguru,” you repeat, and oh how you mean it. He feels even deeper now, raising his head, your lips barely touching as he moves. “Use me! Use me-use me-god-fuck…” because he’s doing just that, moaning against your mouth as your hands come fisted in his hair and you pull. His movement is erratic, rhythm and all failing before successive, incessant, desperate pounding, so deep it hurts and—

His hips stutter once, twice, and he clutches at you fiercely when warmth floods your cunt, hot cum spurting as he keeps you trapped beneath him until you’re full of it. 

You lie there, chest to chest, breathing each other’s air. Your fingers ease the grip on his hair. When he tries to move, your hands press down onto the hard muscle of his ass. “Stay inside me for a while longer?...”

His amber eyes soften; you can feel his heart beating against your chest as though it wants to burst free of its own cage. Suguru doesn’t answer but tilts you both to the side, an arm wound around your middle, the other on the thigh draped over his hip, keeping you entangled. 

You’re spent, all the life force drained from your body, while he looks as though he’s run a marathon without pause: face flushed, muscles gleaming, tense and warm against your softness. His honeyed irises are brighter.

“Did it help?...” you ask, tucking yourself against his chest. The distant roll of thunder returns outside.

“Help?… Oh, yes, absolutely yes, of course. But…” he pauses, like the times he does when mulling over the right words. A trace returns of the Suguru you know most of the time: the gentle, responsible one. He’s usually so selfless and kind, that one would be hard-pressed to believe he’s caused the bruises currently forming on your hips.  

“But?” you ask, barely able to stay awake now; he’s so, so warm, and so close, and your mind can barely process coherent thoughts.

“I…”

You never hear the rest, drifting away, light and content as a leaf wayworn by the wind. Tomorrow… all else can wait until tomorrow.

II >

[catsoupki]

CHP. FOUR | WHAT RECONCILIATION REALLY MEANS (NSFW)

SUMMARY: Katsuki has settled into a routine-like dance with you ever since your debut as a hero. He takes care of you like harmonious clockwork, but as he peels layer after layer, he’s caught up with his own tantalising feelings when he finds your blood staining his hands. You teach him, slowly, of what it means to fall in love.

TAGS: pro hero au, fem reader, banter, hurt/comfort, smut (piv, unprotected, breeding, aftercare)

CHAPTER LENGTH: 3,990 | SERIES MASTERLIST | NEXT CHP.

The first few weeks of January don’t really seem real. You’ve claimed your spot as number three, pushing Shouto down a rank for the time being. You chuckle a bit, was it worth it? 

Your schedule is far from normal, your manager has forced you to be on rehabilitation leave, all of your patrols are being taken up by the sidekicks in your agency, and the only work you’re allowed to do is paperwork, records and organising. 

The first day that you came back was hectic. It was the sixth of January, villains caused more ruckus than usual, probably running high on those New Year’s Eve emotions. 

(But does that mean you can rob a bank too?)

On doctor’s orders, you are not to do any extreme sports and get any more major injuries in at least 2 months. It’s nice, sometimes, you're given a long-awaited breather, heroes who occupy the top 10 ranks know that they never really get a day off. Even when you’re on vacation, if that place needs a hero, you’re still a hero. 

Every day becomes softer, your morning jog is cut to a mile only, and you get to drop by the cafe near your agency for some breakfast before you head to the office. Your hand still instinctively reaches for the locker door that houses your hero suit after your morning showers, and you wince everytime.

Bakugou has been texting you less, maybe that's what the emptiness is. You check your phone more, you see dozens of texts and emails from companies, sponsors and coworkers, but the cavity eating away at your heart doesn’t stop. You’re waiting for something, maybe it’s Dynamight’s picture of the neighbourhood cat, maybe it’s the picture slyly taken of Red Riot helping an old lady cross the street– no more everyday tragedies. 

The Herald: Metal Gear’s Rise and Fall — Why Was the Quirk Ring Bust-In Such a Controversy?

By the second week of January, time starts passing by a little too fast. You still attend the physiotherapy lessons you’re assigned, you still complete the paperwork in your office, you’ve grown accustomed to eating out alone and not Katsuki’s meals too– it’s light work but everything feels so heavy. 

You don’t get a chance to slow down, you blink and sunrise becomes sunset, you rest your eyes and when you open them once more, you’re greeted with your bedroom ceiling and you're awake again. Every day you have something to do, and now it’s your opportunity to take a break for the night– January's group hangout is hosted at Eijirou’s.

You don’t think about anything on your way to his apartment, you don't remember whether you were standing or sitting during the subway ride, you don't remember the colour of the sky, it’s odd because you usually have such a good memory, you can remember Bakugou’s birthday, you can remember all the names of Mina’s cats, what happened?

You don’t notice until you’re about to knock on Kirishima’s door, you let the cold air bite down your throat, it stings, your sinuses hurt, but you don’t think you’d be able to hold yourself together otherwise. 

You don’t smile when Mina opens the door, she has this look in her eyes, like she knows something you don’t, maybe she’s doing you a favour by not saying it aloud, yet it somehow still feels a mockery. 

You don’t greet everyone in the room, they still return friendly and worried smiles, all except one. When you were just about to say ‘Hey Bakugou’ he walks out the door, mumbling something about picking up the food, and when his shoulder brushes yours, he flinches like it hurts, and you try not to wince at the stab in your heart. 

You don’t participate in conversation much either, you don’t laugh as hard at the punchlines, everyone notices, even Katsuki, but no one says anything, too nice to point it out, and too tired to meddle with it. 

The movie continues playing, flashes of black and white occasionally breaking through the haze of your mind, dialogues are but a background noise that fails to distract you from your thoughts. You had looked forward to this, being around friends has always been soothing when you spiral too deep into your own head, but now that you and him aren’t talking, you think that maybe it wasn't your friends that had ever calmed you down to begin with, just him.

They all take turns trying to start a conversation, but the silent tension between you and Katsuki has also dwindled everyone’s mood, you feel sorry, you don't know how they put up with you two sometimes. 

Time starts passing by in a blur again, you’re watching a movie on the couch, you’re eating takeout, you're drinking beer, you're putting on your shoes, Mina is talking about something, Bakugou doesn't ask you to stay with him, Bakugou doesn't look at you when you're turning around, Bakugou doesn't shout some reminder regarding safety when you begin to walk away, Bakugou– forget it. You're already on your way to the subway station, and the air is cold when his arms aren’t wrapped around your shoulders. 

“Can’t you just let it go?” Kirishima leans onto the balcony beside him, a beer in hand. He doesn’t look at him, after all, having been friends with him since they were mere teenagers has given him instincts, he knows that by looking at him Bakugou will only be more shameful, so he does him a favour and looks at the sea instead. 

“This is for her own good.”

@alpha-deku: MG is.. falling off, i think if the quirk ring thing happened a year ago she would have done it smoothly without any hiccups at all, not being able to foresee the extension of quirks and to put yourself into danger so that other people around you have to pick up after you is.. kinda dumb for a top 4 hero lol you would assume that she would’ve had a plan B and not just fall out of the sky to take a bullet for somebody who was clearly more powerful in terms of skill compared to her 

“That fucking cunt..! Wha- who does he think he is? You can’t just drop in and out of my life just because I’m convenient, asshole…” You mumble, drunk, steps crossing haphazardly as you stomp the curb with anger. Your friends struggle to hold you up as you fling your arms around in vexation; some weeks of bottled emotions finally clawing at the edges of the jar, overdue. The blaring music from the clubs all around you and the filth that comes out of the mouths of low-lifes can’t be drowned out, why don't they have airpods for his voice? 

You look at the flesh of your thumb, fingers dancing over the bumpy patch of scar, it’s weird what grief does to people.

(What grief? For what?) 

Every scar has its own beginnings and endings; you got that scar after tripping over a rock while playing hide and seek with Katsuki as a child. When you landed on the rough asphalt with your palms open to break the fall, you had actually slid a few inches. 

Tears were left unspilled behind your glossy eyes, gaze landing on your bleeding thumb, lips plumping into a pout as you held in the sobs that were bouncing inside your skeleton. 

When Katsuki kneels in front of you, he’s as much of a gentleman as he is now, holding your arm tightly, inspecting your wound carefully, wiping your tears away, he brought you to his mother, where she immediately assumed the worst: ‘Katsuki! Did you do this? I raised you not to hurt girls! What’s wrong with you–’ your hiccups interrupted her, ‘I’m sorry Mrs. Bakugou, but it wasn’t him, I tripped myself, Katsuki helped me up.’ It was a miracle that she had understood you through your sniffles, but her expression immediately changes and she starts bandaging you up right away. 

You two stopped playing hide and seek after that, none of you realised that that accident would be your last time playing hide and seek until years later, when you’re reminiscing in your rooms late at night. 

The scar is ugly— the skin there is patchy, uneven, discoloured, the shape is rugged and asymmetric, its origin is as childish as it can be, but you love that scar. It’s weird when you find love in violence. 

(You love it because Katsuki showed you his treehouse afterwards to cheer you up, not even Izuku knows about that.)

That night, when you lay in bed with your run-down makeup washed off, when you have changed out of the revealing and uncomfortable fabrics and into an oversized hoodie that doesn’t belong to you, you wish someone was there to listen through your sniffles and wipe your tears away. 

Your lives have been so deeply intertwined that everything and anything he sees, he’s reminded of you. The neighbourhood stray cat you named Hummus, the hot potatoes sold on the side of the street by that old lady you love talking to, the bus stop advertisement campaign you did with the local animal shelter, he can never truly escape you, even when he’s making the active effort to. Maybe he never grew out of his own cowardice. 

You don’t make it to the February hangout. 

@shotoswife: #mg_overparty it’s so unfair that shes up a rank while shoto is pushed down to fourth??? What did she even do in the mission that the HPSC is selling as a GLORIOUS triumph, shoto literally saved 14 kids from that avalanche in hokkaido, why is that any less impressive compared to that absolute fiasco

The Spring Hero Gala is rolling around the corner, with one month remaining, your stylist has taken advantage of your still freed up schedule and sent you to nine different fittings over the span of a week. It gets tiresome, from taxis to studios to taxis to studios, from itchy and restricting fabrics back to your breathable and flowy hoodies, but it distracts you from the overt absence of Katuski in your life, so you welcome it with open arms. 

After some discussions, your stylist settles the deal with Balenciaga, and your dress for the Hero Gala in March is decided, a maroon silk dress that shapes your waist and chest, it’s flattering on you, the staff had said, you thank them with a humble smile.

(Unconvinced, much like how the internet would feel, you think.)

You return to hero work at a slow and steady pace, increasing the hours of patrols day by day, the abilities of the sidekick accompanying you slowly decrease week by week, and by the time March chases itself into your back, you’re once again a regular occupant on the ranks of the latest villain captures on the official HPSC website. 

Life is moving on, with or without Bakugou, with or without his lunches, with or without his good-mornings, you don’t want him to be your biggest what-if. 

Top 10 Most Scandalous Paparazzi Photos This Month: No.1 Metal Gear Seen Leaving a Gay Bar With a Man Draped Around Her Shoulders! view entire article 

Bakugou has been twisting and turning in his bed for the past hour. He’s always had a good sleep schedule, when his head hits the pillow, it’s lights out within five minutes. He’s not used to this, this unending cycle of thoughts spiralling in his head, he can’t seem to shut off his brain, is he really avoiding you for your own safety? Or his own cowardice– no. Not his own cowardice. Never his own cowardice. 

It’s been exactly three months since you got out of the hospital. Bakugou, like many, has thrown himself headfirst into heroics as a means to not think about you, not that it’s been of much success. Every day and every waking hour, he spends it thinking of you, your hair, your gentle but firm touch, your ringtone, your ‘did u eat yet’s. 

His manager has already chosen a suit for the upcoming Hero Gala, he didn’t have a say in it, he hasn't even glimpsed at what he’d be wearing that evening. These days he just spends them scrolling tabloids on his phone, the latest scandal regarding Metal Gear, recent paparazzi pictures of you. He spends them far away from you, yet still paying close attention to your life. And so unlike himself, he drowns in his own self-pity before his alarm blares him awake, signalling another exhausting day of hero work, filled with villainy and bloodshed. 

Bakugou recalls his teenage years, and even the years he spent in the Genius Office, he has never thought that he’d ever stop being friends with you, he remembers making a vow at the ripe age of 22, promising himself and his friends that he’d never tell you just how much he wanted to have you in his embrace if it could preserve the state of his friend group back then, harmonised and synchronised like it’s their job, but seemingly Bakugou has a knack for fucking things up, he never meant for this to happen, but maybe forever was a word meant for memories, not people.

2X51 Spring Hero Gala Name List: Missing Plus-Ones from Dynamight and Metal Gear? Catch Up On the Latest Hero Drama from THE EVENING STANDARD

When Dynamight first sets foot on the red carpet, he is greeted with a myriad of flashes and shouts. Paparazzi, fans and the like all vie for his attention, the stuffy March air makes his skin sticky, his scowl is in place when he fights his way across the room. He’s tipsy, he has made sure of it, he knows he won’t be able to deal with you in public, let alone sober. 

He used to be a lot of things, sometimes he was your questions and other times he was your answers, but right now he wants to be a comfort that doesn’t quite require either, but he thinks he might end up as your greatest I’ll-never-know. 

When he sees you arrive, his heart skips a beat. Did your stylist do this on purpose? It makes his palms sweatier than usual when he sees your dress, the same hue of red as his eyes, he thinks you look dashing, as you always do, he’s meticulous in the study of you, he’s skilled in reading your expressions, the slightest twitch of a brow and the smallest tick of your lips, maybe the cameras won’t be able to pick out the tired dread that sits on your face, but he knows your smile doesn’t reach your eyes, yet he still can’t look away.

“You look stunning.” He finally admits.

“Oh you're talking to me again?” He winces, he’s been ignoring you, he knows that, you know that, the entire friend group knows it, even the public is aware. He feels like a schoolboy with the way he pretends your existence doesn't matter, some hypocrite he is, he thinks, who was he to criticise your coping mechanisms when he avoided you to protect himself? 

He’s spent three whole months convincing himself that he’s cutting contact with you for your own good, that maybe without him in your life, maybe you’d lead a peaceful one, one without peril, but he knows now, he’s been avoiding you out of his own fear, he never grew out of own cowardice.

“I’m sorry I’m in love with you.” The way he looks at you conveys everything that you need to know, his eyes are filled with something you don’t see in Bakugou very often.

(Fear, fear of losing you, again.)

Your silence is uncanny. It makes him wonder what he’d do if you were to answer with a ‘I’m never talking to you again’, your lack of a response is perhaps more infuriating than that, but he doesn’t have anyone to blame but himself. If you were to block him and refuse to ever see him again, he’d feel sorry. If you were to move from the city and to somewhere else to avoid him– no, you won’t do that, he’s sure you won’t give up everything in your life right now for him, for pitiful him, but it does make him think how he’d do just about anything to see you again. He’s taken that right for granted so far, it never struck him as a privilege to be able to lay his eyes on you, but right now it’s all he’ll ask for, because your absence doesn’t get any quieter even when he conditions himself to it. 

You look beautiful, you look like the one thing he'd love to look at for the rest of his life. 

Somehow your smile is still blazing, like the sun. “Did you miss my rage?” 

(You always knew you’d put down your ego and everything else to talk to him again if he asked for you once more.)

@bkgpackets: i think metal gear has done a lot, i think she’s done enough, for musutafu and for our boi katsuki too, it’s time for them to reconcile, they've been through so much tgt, i'm sure they’ll be able to make amends within a few words spoken

“Let’s welcome our top five heroes this year, they have done plenty in guaranteeing the safety of our neighbourhoods, some have risked their lives, some shared their blood, sweat and tears with us, for the sake of our livelihood. So let’s give them a round of applause, a standing ovation, for their courage and dedication towards protecting our reformed society. Welcome to the bright stage, Tsukuyomi, Shouto, Metal Gear, Dynamight, and Deku!”

Your ears are filled with a sore ringing, eyes blinded by overwhelming blinks of flashlights as you’re greeted with a warm welcome back by the hero society, the most powerful and influential part of civilization standing up to clap for you while you accept your award. You don’t glance down, afraid to fall, you look up and into the cameras, head-on with determination in your gaze and kindness in your grin, you’re Metal Gear. 

+++

When you call your manager to tell her that you won’t be attending any after-parties, she merely agrees with a knowing chuckle, and tells you ‘good luck’. 

After the five-course meal, you’re stuffed when you see Katsuki’s text on your lock screen, meet me behind the hotel garden, it said. Your purse is fluffed with congratulation cards from your coworkers and acquaintances, you clutch onto it as the wind sweeps beneath your dress, heels clicking across the marble floor as you look around and ask star-struck workers where the garden is. It took some extra effort making sure that you stayed away from front doors and cameras, not wanting your meeting with Bakugou to be interrupted by the paparazzi or obsessive fans. 

His back is turned towards you when you push the door open. You know he knows you’re here. He looks up, like troubles are weighing heavy on his shoulders, you can’t help but want to walk up to him to massage them, to strip his layers and take away his worries. 

You take your time walking up to him, you look at the flowers that surround you two, the moon that gives light to his shadow, you let the wind mess up your hair before you are finally shoulder to shoulder with him. He sighs, and you smile.

“I never got you out of my head. I don’t want to either, but I already think about you every hour of every day. I think about how if I were smarter with my emotions, I’d be able to kiss you and love you right every second of the year, of my life. Give me one more chance and I won’t fuck it up. Please.”

You continue glancing down the city while he twists his head to look at you, but when you look back at him, he stutters on his breath, the way you look at him has never changed, through the thick and thin, it is all so gentle.

“I’ll– can I make it up to you? I’ll make this our first date, I’ll make up for the time I lost, so– eyebrows, will you go on a date with me?” He’s blushing, you realise, to your absolute delight. And when you say yes, Bakugou thanks the Gods for the first time in his life. 

He takes your hand as he leads you to his car in the parking lot, it’ll take some time to get used to these gestures of affection. 

(He’s learned his lessons, every second spent by your side is precious, and he’ll learn to appreciate and accept that fact.) 

He opens the car door for you before getting on himself. When he drives you back to his home, he gives you the aux; the windows are rolled down, the air isn’t as humid anymore, it’s cool and it slightly nips at the exposed skin under the jacket he offered you earlier in the night. The journey is smooth, with just a few cars on the road as the clock ticks past 3, he pulls into his driveway, a view you haven’t seen since the last hangout hosted here. 

He doesn’t let you undo your seatbelt, he insists on doing it for you before he gets out of the door and walks over to your side. His touch is soft when he laces his fingers between yours, he guides you to his door as if he’s bringing a valued gift home, like you don’t already know the ins and outs of this apartment with the hours you’ve spent here, you’re sure you can navigate it blindfolded. 

The click of the lock is loud in the quiet of his apartment. You still see your mug sitting lonely behind his cupboards. He takes your purse from you and sets it gently on the cabinet before bending down, with his calloused fingers, he takes off your heels carefully, as if they’re made out of glass and would shatter on impact. When he stands to his full height again, he’s one breath closer, you can count the scars that dust across his countenance this way, you’re shameless in the way you let your eyes meander over his face, the delicate skin that have seen so much tragedy, right at your fingertips, smooth but rugged at the edges of his blemishes, his stories. 

His hands snake around your waist and land on the small of your back, pulling you near, until not even a sheet of paper can separate the two of you, the way he looks at you– it makes you feel nervous, shy, and just like every other aspect in his life, he meets your eye with courage, dedication, to prove himself to you once again. 

It’s you who kisses him first. You go on your tippy toes, just reaching his lips in time that he scoops you tight and close, your hands begin to make their way up his nape and into his messy locks, ashy and for you, its scent familiar. His big and rough hands cloak their way under your thighs, picking you up effortlessly before setting you down on that corner of the kitchen island. 

His breaths taste like liquor and you’re addicted. His lips are soft, even, in a way that you know he takes good care of himself, but his kisses begin to get a bit more desperate. Teeth begin to clatter, he begins to nip, like the wind and like you’d get away otherwise, and maybe you will. The grip you have on his hair grows needier, like you’re begging. 

He picks you up, and a small noise escapes from your lips that he swallows greedily. He’s waited so long, been so patient for so long.

Katsuki decides that he’s been a gentleman long enough. He slowly walks towards his bedroom, pushing the door open with his hip before he puts you on the bed with as much tenderness a starving man could have. 

He doesn't hesitate in stripping you when he sees the same desire glinting in your eyes, the silk dress slips off like butter. Despite it being you two’s first time, you all but work together like a well-oiled machine, harmonised and synchronised. Somehow, he knows that your whine means you must want his shirt off as well. He’s generous in taking off his suit and dress pants, his belt leaves his waist with a clip before your hands take its place. You swear your mouth waters at his slim waistline, his eyes glimmer when he lays them on your breasts, spilling from behind your lingerie. 

“I’ve waited so long for you, my love,” He whispers with his nose tucked beneath your jaw, you shudder when he licks a long and teasing stripe up to your ear, your nails scratch his shoulders in tandem, a silent plea for him to do something. He hears your prayers and begins to make his way towards your clothed heat, you’re embarrassed as he looks at you directly when he kisses your clit. His fingers go up to your hips before sliding your panties off at a terrifically slow pace.

Bakugou thinks he’s in nirvana when he sees your wetness clinging to the fabric, his eyes are far rolled back into his skull, he suddenly thinks he’s a man dying of thirst. The way your core glistens under the soft moonlight shining through from his windows makes him weak in the knees, “Please, Kats, I don’t need prep, I just need you,” 

He smiles when he hears you before complying. Even in your haze, you can still clearly recognise the wet spot on his underwear, his boxers seem uncomfortably tight, but you’re not in a much better state, when his cologne drowns you in his bed, you think you’re in limbo. 

Katsuki’s body must be shaped by the Greek sculptors, you think. His abdominal muscles are nothing short of a breathtaking sight, he chuckles when he hears your sharp intake of breath. The way his fingers slip into your wet cunt earns you a place in hell, but you feel like you’re in heaven when you see him wrap his digits, coated with you, around his cock, pumping up and down until his pink tip is leaking and waiting. He’s out of breath before you even begin. 

“Fuck, baby, you ready? ‘Cause I can’t wait anymore,” Your nods are overzealous, but his chuckles are cut short when his tip slowly pushes past your hole and into your pussy, he’ll die happy now, he thinks, you’re nothing short of perfection. 

Your moans are sacrilegious when he sinks his entire length in, his arms are caging you in, and you’re forced to look at him, dazed and eyes lidded. It’s not long before he starts moving, and then your hands are gripping the sheets, he gets up close and personal, so he can listen to your moans right at his ear while he sucks a bruising hickey onto your neck, so that no doubt you’ll be his by the end of tonight. His pace is set fast, but it becomes erratic soon enough, “Kats–! Hnng, fuck! Baby I need you so bad, give it to me, oh god!” He grimaces once, his fingers intertwined with yours before bringing them above your head, “Don’t beg god for mercy, he won’t save you now, beg for me, scream my name instead baby,” he grins, swallowing all of your sobs of his name possessively. 

His hips snap towards yours faster and faster and you swear he's reached an undiscovered spot when he brings your legs atop his shoulders, his grunts grow in volume, he begs for you now, and you’ve never felt more powerful having Dynamight appeal for your love and mercy. “Oh, oh, love, you want me to fill you up? Pump you full with my cum, you want it, don’t you?” The grip he has on your hips is brutal and you’re sure they’ll leave a mark but you can’t be happier, you scream “Yes! Yes! Yes!” and by your third promise he’s already painting your warm walls white, he doesn’t stop for your sake, his fingers go around your clit in small but fast circles, and you’re quickly thrown over the cusp and left twitching as his cum is pushed into the deepest crevices in you before he collapses on top of you, panting, sweaty, and sweet. 

Your eyelids become heavy, threatening to close when he pulls you close to his chest, the familiar aroma of his nitroglycerin sweat mixed with his shower gels flooding your nostrils brings you comfort; you grip onto his pillow case, you’ll pretend to fall asleep, anything to keep your tears in, and dare they ever fall over your cheeks, you’ll face into the soft cushion and inhale what you can now call home. 

A leap of faith, they call it, a dive into the uncertainty of what Katsuki will bring to you.  

“Eyebrows? We need to take a shower,” He whispers while cradling your head in his calloused palms, voice soft and gentle, you don’t want to open your eyes, wishing they’ll remain shut for as long as he allows, “come on, we’ll sleep afterwards,” but with a promise that you two can spend the remainder of what is left until dawn together, when the two of you will have to suffer the violating scrutiny of the public eye once more, you follow him to the bathroom, to the edge of the Earth if he asks, because it won’t be everyday that you get to preserve this kind of unbreached privacy, the kind of seclusion spent with you tangled in his limbs and tucked beneath his sheets, safe and sound, away from the rest of the world. 

[britcision]

Where is your favorite Dragon Age place? Do you have a favorite romance?

Mine would have to be Skyhold just because all our friends are there and it's home. My spouse and I have played all the romances in Inquisition and I love them all sooooo very much that I couldn't choose a favorite and I just wish you could romance every last one of them at the same time.

*Asks are sent for fun, no pressure to answer.

@amloveabledeathmo (dunno if tumblr’s started notifying people on asks yet sooooo)

I’m a really huge fan of the Emerald Graves myself, because I am a Tree Child and crave the clambering over rocks and streams and up as many trees as will have me

(Our Lavellan doesn’t get it all from my partner he’s got some lil snippets from me 😁)

(Buuuut since Corin gets half their disabilities from me it’s not something I can do as much as I like anymore 😔)

I’m still relatively new to the series though, so the only romance I’ve seen in full is the Iron Bull… and I’m pretty sure he’s gonna be tough to beat!

We’re doing a Trevelyan/Dorian run at the moment so I can get a better fix on Séamus, but I’m most looking forward to Josephine so far 👀

Also it’s illegal that both Dorian and Bull will independently tell you they’re into threesomes and then abjectly refuse to let you romance them both at once 😤 how dare

[hamelin-born]

My brain keeps bouncing between @nevertheless-moving 's Stormlight Archive AUs - they're unutterably fantastic, go and read them right now if you haven't already - and now I just. Uh.

I wanna see a time-travel AU featuring herald!Kaladin. Because it would be so fun, and have the potential for so much crack.

YOU WANTED A HERALD? YOU GET A DARKEYED HERALD WHO IS FULL OF THE OVERARCHING MAJESTY OF THE ALMIGHTY, RADIANT IN HIS GLORY, AND why are all of you looking at him like that, he's just a guy?

There are multiple avenues this could take, but the one I like to play around with is that Kaladin is misinterpreted as Jezrien's reincarnation.

If he doubles-down and denies everything people just think he's unaware of his status at least part of the time, with his herald!self basically - possessing him at times and leaving no memory of the event behind?

People are freaking out. Does this mean that all the Heralds have been reincarnated?!

If we tie this in with @nevertheless-moving's au, we can have bridge four collectively going I KNEW IT!

If you really want to have fun with this, we could actually have an AU where Kaladin is Jezrien reincarnated, and character-of-your-choice is herald-of-your-choice reincarnated.

[nevertheless-moving]

Stormlight AU 27B: Elhokar time travel

From Death to Way of Kings. Tries to get help, but unfortunately Elhokar is alone here.

Alternate version of this meeting, in which Elhokar uses his elementary light weaving skills to sneak into Sadeas bridgeman barracks, absolutely scaring the shit out of them.

Dark amorphous blob with glowing red eyes entering the barracks [it is his first time trying to be invisible. He is bad at it]: hello stormbles — do you all just sleep on the floor? And what is that smell? Heralds, this is depressing.

Bridge Four: WHAT THE — VOIDBRINGER! VOID —

Dark amorphous blob with glowing red eyes: wha — I am not a voidbringer! Stormblessed, tell them! I don't look anything like a voidbringer!

Kaladin: what? What are you? how do you know me? what do you want from us?

Dark amorphous blob with glowing red eyes: i — i thought —

Kaladin: Bissig, your knife, quick —

Dark amorphous blob with glowing red eyes: ah! keleks breath! Knife is not necessary, i, look — look — you remember, right? You saved me from assassins? We flew from Urithiru to Alethkar? Rescuing — well, attempting to rescue the queen? Come on hero, your kind of my last hope here, you have to remember —

[Dark amorphous blob with glowing red eyes turns into pretty light eyed woman]: tada! I - I swore my first oath! Just before I….you were there!

Teft: damnation! You're one too, aren't you!

Moash: uh, kal? It… might be a good time to talk about your past now?

Lopen: gancho, does this have something to do with your, you know, thing.

Skar: thing? what thing?

Rock: captain, i believe this woman too has god with her

Drehy: god?

Kaladin: i … have no idea what's going on. Who — what are you?

Brightlady [starting to tear up]: i — i thought for sure you would…you're the hero, not…oh stormfather, what am i supposed to do now?

Lopen: gancho! Very rude question! If you can't remember a woman's name you're supposed to fake it eh?

Moash: yeah kaladin, don't you know anything about women? Also, seriously? a lighteyes?

Kaladin:

Kaladin: i'm sorry ma'am, i don't — i have no idea what you're talking about

Brightlady [sniffling]: okay…alright…you don't remember, but you can still fix this— you can fly right? You could take an army to the voidbringers before they bring the desolation —

Hobber: you can fly??

Moash: don't be stupid, she's clearly insane — that black smoke must have been some kind of trick — listen lady —

Teft: lad…

Kaladin: i can't —

Syl: actually i just remembered! I think you might be able to — well not fly like me, but uh, fall? Upwards?

Kaladin:

Kaladin: I — I don't know how to fly! I'm not who you think i am!

Drehy: did anyone notice he didn't say he couldn't fly. because he definitely changed what he was going to say just now. Like i don't know how to use a bow, but i probably could, if someone taught me

Moash: Kal, just say you can't fly and end this conversation already

Kaladin: ...I have never flown before in my life

Bissig: i KNEW there was something about you — you're a herald in disguise, right?

Kaladin: what?! No! I — I might be a surgebinder, but seriously, I have no idea what's going on, alright?

Moash: what in the name of jezrians balls is a surgebinder?

Brightlady: i can't free you yet — dalinar will die…

Kaladin: wait, you can free us?

Brightlady: i mean i could probably buy you from Sadeas…but dalinar won't listen to me, he thinks i'm being paranoid — he would die — the entire kholin house would fall…

Kaladin: i don't give a cremling's leg about the kholin house! My men are dying! The bridgecrews are a death sentence and we're making runs every day now! If you want me to be some big voidbringer slaying hero then free us first!

Brightlady: oh? And the thousands of dark eyed soldiers under his command? You don't care about them?

Kaladin: what are we supposed to do as slaves that —

Voice from outside: hey! Bridge Four! What's that racket?

Moash: chull dung

Skar: Captain —

Kaladin: ah! Quick, change back to the voidbringer!

Brightlady: I'm not a —

Kaladin: if they find a brightlady in here we'll all be strung up! Hurry!

Brightlady: who would dare — oh, right right, uh —

[Brightlady transforms into nondescript herdassian man]: how — 'ows that?

Lopen: cousin!

Anyway after Elhokar leaves bridge four is left with the distinct impression that Kaladin is a herald who lost his memory.

Kaladin: i haven't lost my memory! I remember my whole life! I just don't like talking about it! None of us like talking about our pasts! Teft tell them what you told me —

Teft: …i mean i thought you were a surgebinder, but…

Moash: seriously what in damnation is surgebinding

Teft: it's people with the same powers as knights radiant. People who can breathe in stormlight and do things with it. After he survived the highstorm i brought him diamond chips…it's how he healed

Kaladin: which you didn't actually tell me right away

Skar: why didn't you tell us?

Moash: yeah. I thought we were in this together

Kaladin: i – i didn't know what to think. I still don't. For all i know I'm cursed, like the Knight's radiant were.

Lopen: you ain't cursed gancho! What kind of curse let's you stick rocks together?

Rock: stick rocks together?

Moash: alright, i can see why you wouldn't share a storming useless power

Teft: i thought you were a radiant but… most people say that the heralds come first, warning the world and then training the radiants. In some ways it makes more sense to be a herald alone than a single radiant without a herald…

Drehy: oh! Which herald do you think he is!

Kaladin: i am not a herald!

Sigzil: i believe that woman would have been Shalash — i have seen her depicted as a many faced woman capable of soul casting

Moash: huh i have heard that soulcasters are actually something unnatural under those hoods

Kaladin: seriously moash? You believe this?

Moash: i mean i already knew no one was answering prayers. If you're a herald that just means that the gods are fumbling around confused and screwing up, which would storming explain a lot about the world

Skar: oh that's a good point

Kaladin: no it's not!

Hobber: its alright sir! Er, my lord!

Kaladin: do NOT call me —

Eth: when i asked him about washing hands before and after touching wounds he just said 'wisdom of the heralds'

General bridgemen: oooh

Kaladin: my father taught me that! He's a surgeon! I grew up in a rural farming village in Sadeas! Enlisted in the army when i was 15 – i can remember my whole life, alright? Every miserable detail! I was 11 when King Gavilar died! I — and I can't believe i have to convince people of this — am not a Herald!

Bridge Four:

Rock: have heard of men whose minds make up stories after hitting head

Lopen: oh! oh! or, maybe its like, a past life thing

Sigzil: some religions do tell of mythical figures being reborn in times of need

General bridge four: ooh

Kaladin: YOU THREE AREN'T EVEN VORIN

Lopen: exactly!

Sigzil: reluctant as i am to be on the same side of an argument as lopen, it is not really heresy for us

Teft: i think jezrian and nale were the ones who could walk on walls and whatnot

Jaks: Jezrian sort of rhymes with kaladin!

Kaladin:

Kaladin: I'm going back to sleep.

[goddessofroyalty]

So- knowing that you arent hiding from spoilders. i kind of wanted to bring up viktors fate in the Zaun Family au.

Like, would silco and Vander know of viktors fate post councils attack? Would they see their son in the cocoon(girl idk the name).

What if when he leaves and makes the commune? What of Jayces disappearance for months?

Like, their son became an augmented arcane herald- *and then* became an eldritch being...like..that's alot. Vi, Jinx, the boys, that's their sibling. That's silcos and vanders first baby boy and he's turned into this -being-

And jayce sure isn't innocent as he's just as changed as Viktor is.

To start with I've always known that I would have to deviate Zaun Family from Season Two of Arcane because the chain of events that caused how Season One ended (ie Jinx blowing up the Council Chambers) wouldn't happen in this verse. The question was always just how much and how many B-plots I could continue to use.

I also did kind of bank on the "external threat" teased in Season One being a much bigger plot-point than it turned out to be. So... yeah gonna' have to figure that one out.

Zaun Family was designed to be a happy au (even if everyone's individual complexes are debatably worse) and what happens with Viktor this season does not fit within happy au territory. So I'm probably going to stick with my original plan that is a bit closer to League lore of Viktor augmenting himself in order to replace the organs that start failing from his disease (with the full Machine Herald fit being armour he creates on top of his argumentation because of... whatever that external threat ends up being).

Saying that I'm very happy to play with alternatives because this verse is more a premise with a bunch of branches shooting off than an actual set-in-stone story.

The first thing we need to actually consider is the very real possibility that Silco would be in the Council Chambers as well. Unless he's been kicked out and that's why Jinx is blowing up the place. But he could be right there to see the damage done to Viktor from the explosion.

And we know from Season One how desperate he can get when it comes to saving his child. So he's probably completely on-board Jayce's desperate attempt to save Viktor and is honestly probably breathing down Jayce's neck the whole time to hurry it up! (and quite possibly dragging Singed out of his cave all the way up there to Do Something To Help) Which means that when Viktor comes back different there is a level of responsibility (and guilt) that rests on his shoulders for it as well.

They probably don't pay Jayce's disappearance much mind. He's not their concern, and I think they do rest a bit of blame on him for whatever has happened to Viktor. So if he wants to fuck off in his shame, sure, he can go fuck off for all they care.

The appeals to Viktor's humanity / original self start a lot earlier. And this is the point where I probably need to have watched the season to get a feel myself for how much I think it's Viktor is being manipulated by the Hextech into doing what he's doing vs Viktor has been taken over by the Hextech. Because depending on that affects whether that would work before the whole other plot happens and Jayce showing back up or not. (Which is also kind of funny where Jayce goes through this whole nightmare adventure seeing how this path ends badly only to show back up to Viktor already deciding not to continue down it because in that alternative universe he didn't have two dads and four siblings grounding him in humanity)

On a slightly funnier note - Viktor is generally considered the "good" child of the five (because he has a high success rate when he does do illegal things to achieve his goals) but now he started a whole cult and his siblings are never ever going to let him down.

[weshney]

DP Writing Prompt

Lich King AU

Imagine, if you will, a grand, witchcraftian circle carved into the floor of a dungeon, toxic green light crisscrossing in precise geometric patterns and inlayed with delicate, looping symbols. The air is damp and cold, the atmosphere murky and dim. A team of heros approach an alter wafting fetid smells, its top and sides dripped in flaking, dried blood. Rotting corpses shamble in from the shadows, a glowing skeleton or two quick to dart in for a strike as screams echo from a back room. A heavy door slams shut with a thunderous weight, and the shrieks abruptly cutting off. The rattling, raspy sound of worn burlap and bare feet drag lurchingly across aged stone, heralding the approach of a single mummified beast trolling a dirty, half-concious human behind. The heros surge forward, frantically trying to intervene as the teenage girl is dropped with a sickening crunch onto the raised, bloodied quart. Thinking fast, one of the heroes blasts the floor, breaking the circle. The viridecent hue that illuminates the lines fades out.

Only...the summoning continues.

And the undead start to panic.

But how?! The circle was broken! And what could make such horrifying monsters so terrified?! Was the worst yet to come? Had they royally fucked things up by destroying the circle?

"Funny you should think that. You might not have royally fucked things up," a haunting chuckle echoes about the chamber as the newly arrived Lich King taps his skeletal crown, "but I'm about to."

A smile straight from Uncanny Valley splits his lips.

Then, eyes of green coal pan across the room's occupants, instantly spotting the primed sacrifice splayed limp and ragged-breath over the alter.

The king bares his fangs and the grotesque creature that towers over her takes a half step back. Then frost creeps like timelapsed vines over stone and it quivers. One heartbeat. Two. Its composure shatters, and it pivots, sending a thick-ended saber clattering to the floor as it lunges into a four-legged sprint toward the back room.

The clawed skitters only barely just begin their scritchy click-click-click-clacks when all hell breaks loose.

Turns out, that wasn't a summoning circle. It was a warding circle. Those undead? Yeah; they weren't trying to call their king to battle. They were trying their best to keep him out. Because they knew, if he got in, he was gonna beat aaaall their asses.

(Because it fits the vibes so well and I'm still wowed by this artwork years after I first saw it, make sure to reblog @pengold 's Drow Warlock Danny!)

My take on the idea that it'd be kinda fun to see Ghost King Danny begrudgingly find out he also rules the undead. He just gets stuck with a bunch of rotting, smelly, evil subjects that he's just disgusted by and can't get rid of. And to make matters worse, they are constantly doing vile things in his name that he has to put a stop to. As far as humans know, he's all about accepting sacrifices, spreading plagues, and destroy life in general, all because of some goddamn fine print and a horde of asshole servants.